


weathervanes

by decinq



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pining, out of order story telling, post Chapter 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: “So,” Archie says, unfolding the blanket he got from the hall closet. “You and Betty.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> heads up for allusion to abuse + trauma  
> also, sorry, i didn't proof read this cause i'm lazy lmao. love u bye

  
_i know the world's a broken bone_  
_but melt your headaches, call it home_  


 

  
[northern downpour](http://youtube.com/watch/?v=-dIqsvpmcOI&s=34&e=289#Northern_Downpour_-_Panic!_At_the_Disco_\(live_at_Bush_Hall\)), panic at the disco

 

 

 

 

 

 

Archie pumps up the air mattress, and Jughead watches. Watches Archie’s hand, Archie’s arm, Archie’s back. He watches the window, listens to the sound of Archie breathing, the mattress inflating, the sound of the TV coming from downstairs where, no doubt, Mister Andrews is drinking a beer and watching the news. 

  


Jughead watches as rain starts to hit the roof outside Archie’s window, listen to the sound of it. He looks back at Archie and then away, looks at his own hands.

  


He wants to cry. He picks at the skin beside his thumbnail and works to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth. 

  


*

 

 

 

 

  


Archie only ever sleeps over at Jughead’s place once. They’re nine, and they lay on the living room floor, facing each other, giggling and trying to be quiet. The blanket over their heads makes everything sticky and sweet, their own secret space.

  


The front door opens and swings around hard enough to hit the wall behind it. Archie doesn’t notice, is still giggling, but Jughead stops breathing. Holds his breath. Covers Archie’s mouth with his hand.

  


Archie licks Jughead’s hand and Jughead wants to shove his face away. He hears footsteps towards the bedroom, thinks that maybe the front door didn’t get shut properly. He shoves at Archie’s face and Archie bites his lip, holding back his laughter.

  


Archie has never been afraid of anything.

  


Jughead says, “You’re gross, you know.”

  


“Yep,” Archie says, proud of himself.

 

 

  


*

 

 

 

 

  


“So,” Archie says, unfolding the blanket he got from the hall closet. “You and Betty.”

  


Jughead sighs, turns away from the window and looks at Archie, and looks down at his hands.

 

 

 

  


*

 

 

 

 

They sit at Pop’s with a map and shared milkshake. Archie traces the interstate with a blue highlighter and Jughead imagines. Imagines pizza in Chicago and campfire food just past there, imagines the open road and the playlist Archie’s been working on since March. 

  


“This is gonna be great,” Jughead says, and Archie looks up.

 

  


*

 

 

  


Jughead watches as rain starts to hit the roof outside Archie’s window, listen to the sound of it. He looks back at Archie and then away, looks down at his own hands.

  


He wants to cry. He picks at the skin beside his thumbnail and works to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth. 

  


The skin around his nail is raw, pink and exposed, and it hurts, but it’s something to focus on. It stings. He tries to pick out the sound of Anderson Cooper’s voice through the floor, the vent, from downstairs, from another world, one that Jughead feels like he’s not a part of, never could be.

  


It’s like Archie lives in a bubble. Nothing can get in unless he decides to let it. Sitting on the edge of Archie’s bed, Jughead knows it’s just them, that the bubble doesn’t extend to Betty or Veronica or Reggie or Jason or anyone else in the whole universe. It doesn’t reach Miss Grundy and it never could. Sometimes Jughead thinks all of Riverdale is in its own bubble, their own little world, but this isn’t like that, Archie isn’t like that, never has been. 

  


Jughead presses the heels of his hands into his eye until he sees stars, then white, then red. 

 

 

 

  


*

 

 

Before this summer, before everything went to shit, they lay it all laid out. Jason and Polly aren’t the only ones with a getaway plan.

  


They sit at Pop’s with a map and shared milkshake. Archie traces the interstate with a blue highlighter and Jughead imagines. Imagines pizza in Chicago and campfire food just past there, imagines the open road and the playlist Archie’s been working on since March. 

  


“This is gonna be great,” Jughead says, and Archie looks up.

  


Jughead wants to tell him, wants to ask, wants to say, “You’re the only person I ever want to do this with,” and, “We could drive up to the river and that would be special enough if you would just love me back,” or, “Don’t go, don’t go, please don’t go,” and, “What do you think, Arch? You and me?” but doesn’t. Archie tilts his head and looks at Jughead. His eyes fall to Jughead’s mouth and Jughead doesn’t say any of the things that are welling up in his chest, and Archie smiles.

  


“What?” Jughead asks.

  


Archie shakes his head, and his grin could split the sky in half. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s just.” He gestures at Jughead. “You’ve got.” He leans forward and touches his finger to the skin above Jughead’s lip. “Chocolate,” he says.

  


 

 

*

 

 

  


Archie has never been afraid of anything.

  


Jughead says, “You’re gross, you know.”

  


“Yep,” Archie says, proud of himself. “But I’m the best friend you’ve got, Juggy.”

  


“In the whole wide world, Arch,” he says, and even in the dark, in the cozy space they’ve made for each other on Jughead’s living room floor, Jughead can see Archie smiling.

  


 

 

*

 

 

 

It’s like Archie lives in a bubble. Nothing can get in unless he decides to let it. Sitting on the edge of Archie’s bed, Jughead knows it’s just them, that the bubble doesn’t extend to Betty or Veronica or Reggie or Jason. It doesn’t reach Miss Grundy and it never could. Sometimes Jughead thinks all of Riverdale is in its own bubble, their own little world, but this isn’t like that, Archie isn’t like that, never has been. 

  


Jughead presses the heels of his hands into his eye until he sees stars, then white, then red. 

  


Jughead breathes, hard, and Archie says, “Hey.”

  


Jughead hadn’t noticed that Archie had stopped blowing up the bed, hadn’t felt Archie looking. Jughead is so used to looking in secret that he never figured that Archie could do it, too. When Jughead exhales, it’s shaky, catches in his throat with everything else he’s never said, gets caught up with every “Stop,” every, “I’m scared,” every “What do you think, Arch? You and me?” 

  


The bed dips when Archie sits beside him, his thigh pressing into Jughead’s, his hand on Jughead’s back. “Hey,” he says again, so soft Jughead thinks it might kill him, hurts more than anything his dad ever did to him, “Juggy, hey.”

  


“I’m so tired,” Jughead says, still seeing red, still pressing his hands into his eyes. 

  


Archie’s right hand draws a small circle in the centre of Jughead’s back. “I know,” Archie says, and Jughead doesn’t know whether or not he believes him. He gently wraps the fingers of his left hand around Jughead’s wrist. He doesn’t tug, doesn’t push or pull or pry. His fingers are dry, his skin always more sensitive as the season’s change. 

  


It’s not a compromise, not a fight. His fingers don’t sear into Jughead’s skin. Jughead says, “I didn’t kill Jason.”

  


“I know,” Archie says again, and even as Jughead drops his hands to his lap, he doesn’t let go.

 

 

 

  


*

 

 

  


In a different world, they go on their road trip. They take turns driving, and they spend two weeks laughing, swimming, singing along to the stereo. They camp under the stars, Archie still afraid of moths like he’s always been, and Jughead catches them, cups his hands around them.

  


“They can’t hurt you,” he says, and Archie squirms.

  


“They’re gross,” he says, whines, really, and Jughead turns away from him to let the bug fly away. “If you touch their wings, they turn to dust.”

  


Jughead laughs, sitting back into his chair in front of the fire. “And where’d you read that?”

  


Archie huffs. “You should wash your hands,” he says, which isn’t an answer, and when they crawl into their jerry-built tent, Jughead says, “I’d never let anything hurt you, Arch.”

  


“I thought you said moths couldn’t hurt me,” Archie says, soft, nearly a whisper even though they’re in the middle of nowhere, rolling over to face Jughead in his sleeping bag. 

  


“Not with me around, they can’t,” Jughead whispers back, and it lands somewhere in the space between them, and Archie shoves Jughead away with one hand while scootching closer, and Jughead laughs. 

  


Archie says, “I guess you’re the best I’ve got,” and it feels like he’s saying something else, and Jughead thinks,  _ Please.  _

 

  


*

 

 

 

But that’s not their world and they never go, and instead, a week after they were meant to leave, Jason dies.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“I know,” Archie says again, and he even as Jughead drops his hands to his lap, he doesn’t let go.

  


“I swear I didn’t,” Jughead says again. 

  


Archie nods, “I believe you. I know you could never.”

  


Jughead shakes his head. “You  _ don’t _ know that, though. I could. My dad--”

  


“You’re not your dad,” Archie says, and Jughead had never been sure, never knew for certain that Archie knew. He always thought Archie didn’t know anything that wasn’t right in front of his nose. It’s why he messed up with Betty and why Veronica thinks he’s a dipshit and why they never went on their road trip, but Archie talks to Jughead in soft tones and moves slowly and Jughead never noticed. Only noticed the way other people at school are loud all the time, the way they shove each other around, and it makes him think about Reggie’s sneer. 

  


“What if--” Jughead stops.

  


“You don’t have to forgive him,” Archie says, and if only it were so easy.

  


“He’s my dad,” Jughead says.

  


“So?” Archie asks. 

  


“I don’t know,” Jughead says, and Archie lets go of his wrist. 

  


“I’ll go get some blankets,” Archie says.

 

 

 

 

  


*

 

 

  


Archie sleeps curled up on his side, and his freezing cold toes are pressed into the side of Jughead’s calf. They’re thirteen and it’s one in the morning. Archie doesn’t snore, but he’s breathing heavily through his mouth. Jughead is alternating between looking at the ceiling and the lumps of both his feet under Archie’s comforter. Archie’s parents are arguing in their bedroom down the hall. The house is dark except for the night light out in the hall, the muted blue light seeping in under the crack of Archie’s bedroom door. 

  


Jughead can’t hear what they’re fighting about. He doesn’t understand how Archie can sleep through it. He turns onto his side and matches his breathing to Archie’s.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

“So,” Archie says, unfolding the blanket he got from the hall closet. “You and Betty.”

  


Jughead sighs, turns away from the window and looks at Archie, and looks down his hands. “I thought we already talked about this.”

  


“We did,” Archie says, and he lays the blankets down on the air mattress. When they were younger, they used to just share the bed. Jughead isn’t sure when that stopped. Maybe it’s only stopping now, a new line drawn between them that was never there before. “Is it--”

  


Jughead leans forward to take his shoes off, pulls his beanie off and stuffs it in his pocket. “I don’t know, Archie. I care about her a lot. I always have.”

  


“Yeah,” Archie says.

 

Jughead wants to say, “Don’t be jealous,” or “Don’t be mad” and “What do you think, Arch? You and me?” but says nothing, instead. Slips out of his pants and tugs off his socks and whispers, “Thanks for making up the bed. Sorry I didn’t help.”

  


Archie doesn’t sigh, just asks, “Which pillow do you want? Softer one?”

  


Jughead nods, and Archie tosses it from the bed.

 

 

  


*

 

 

It’s one in the morning. Archie doesn’t snore, but he’s breathing heavily through his mouth. Jughead is alternating between looking at the ceiling and the lumps of both his feet.

  


He hears Archie roll over in bed. He shifts onto his side and tries to make out the shape of Archie up in his bed.

  


Archie says, “I’m not jealous of you being with Betty.”

  


Jughead says, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

  


Archie whispers, “Can’t sleep.”

  


“Me neither,” Jughead says.

  


Archie lifts the edge of his comforter and says, “C’mon, then,” and so Jughead gets up, wobbles on the air mattress and slides into Archie’s bed. 

  


Archie pulls the comforter over their heads. “Always felt like we were in our own little world when we did this,” he says, and the blanket over their heads makes everything sticky and sweet. 

  


“If only,” Jughead says, and Archie says, “I’m sorry I bailed on our road trip.”

  


“Maybe we can do it next summer. You know, if I’m not in jail.”

  


Archie huffs a laugh and shoves at Jughead. “We can always see if the girls want to come.”

  


“Oh,” Jughead says, and then pulls the comforter down to his chin, breathes in the cool, normal air of Archie’s room.

  


Archie follows, pops his head out. “We don’t have to. We can do it just us. I just figured you and Betty--”

  


“It’d be fun,” Jughead says. “Just won’t be the same.”

  


“Yeah,” Archie says, and his cold toes press into Jughead’s calf. “Do you think it will ever be the same again?”

  


“Don’t think so,” Jughead whispers back, and it lands somewhere in the space between them, and Archie’s toes press into Jughead’s leg with a bit more pressure. Jughead says, “You’re my best friend, Archie,” like a compromise, like a lost battle, as if loving Archie isn’t the best thing on Jughead’s permanent record. 

  


Archie says, “In the whole wide world,” and it feels like he’s saying something else, and Jughead thinks,  _ Please.  _

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter/tumblr @ spockothy, come say hi


End file.
